


Gauda Prime and Prejudice and Vampires

by elviaprose



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Remix, mild references to blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviaprose/pseuds/elviaprose
Summary: Roj Blake leads the Freedom Party from Gauda Prime, an agricultural commune with a harmless fetish for public assemblies and gossip. Kerr Avon is a free trader with an incredible ship, a fabulous supercomputer, no tact whatsoever, and a less than perfectly harmless thirst for human blood.





	Gauda Prime and Prejudice and Vampires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Gauda Prime and Prejudice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925380) by [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los). 



> I wrote most of this story for the B7 remix challenge, but stalled out. Years later, I am posting the finished version. Many thanks to x_los, for betaing, brainstorming, and also for being patient about not getting a remix for years and years.

Jenna watched through eyes slit against the light—dim, but even that made her eyes ache—as Avon measured powdered blood into the med unit’s blood synthesizer. He dispensed the blood into an ordinary glass, just like he was using a food machine, and then drank. His back was to her, but she could see him tilt his head back slowly as he drained the glass. 

“Why are you drinking blood?” Jenna asked him. Her words seemed to come from someone else, slurred and slow and raspy.  
He spun around, startled. 

“I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“I’m not sure I am,” she said. 

“You are awake. You are not, however, entirely lucid. Your fever is extremely high,” Avon said. He stepped closer and reached a hand out. She flinched back, but he put his hand to her forehead anyway. His hand was cool, like the water she wanted so badly to drink.

“Your hand is so cold.” 

“As I said, your fever is extremely high.” Avon must be right, she thought. Everything felt and seemed so badly askew. It was much more reasonable to assume that it was not Avon who was cold, but she who was overheated, and that he had not been drinking blood, after all. How could he have been? 

“Could I have some water?”

“I’m afraid you can’t have more than a sip.”

He splashed less than an inch of water into a glass and brought it to her. It was wonderful.

“Can’t I have any more?”

“More will make you even more ill than you already are, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Avon said, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. “ However, you’ll recover soon enough. Look at it this way. You have a great deal to look forward to, when you are well. Food, water…” She frowned up at him. He smiled an odd, tight smile and then left. Jenna sank back down. She was incredibly tired, but her pulse fluttered anxiously, as though she were afraid. Was she? She was not accustomed to being ill, and she rarely felt the need to be somewhere else than where she was, unless she was in immediate danger and wanted to get out of it. And yet she wanted to return to the comfort of familiarity of GP very badly just then. 

***

As Blake’s vision went a blood-deprived gray, he felt a flare of temper. Miss Mellanby really might have warned him that teleportation made one dizzy and faint. Of course, he reminded himself, young Miss Mellanby had done nothing wrong. She’d come down simply to tell him that Jenna had taken ill but was recovering well aboard the Liberator. It was Blake who had insisted that she take him to Jenna immediately, and she had done so, teleporting up and then back down with a bracelet in hand.

The blame for his irritation, if not for his unanticipated dizziness, surely rested with Mister Avon. Blake had been far from pleased when he had found out that if he wished to see Jenna he would have to enter Mister Avon’s domain. Blake couldn’t reasonably hold Mr Avon responsible for the fact that Jenna had become alarmingly ill in the course of her work with Mister Avon. Nonetheless, he resented it. 

“Welcome to the Liberator, Mister Blake,” Vila said. “Teleport all right? I used to get a little queasy, myself.”

Blake bit back a snappish reply. It was hardly fair to take it out on Vila. To steady himself, he looked around. He was immediately struck with a powerful intuition that the ship was in some way alive. The walls were smooth and white, unmistakably manufactured. Yet the architecture reminded him more of the geometry of nature than the geometry of man: the honeycomb of a bee, the heart of a flower. A flower, perhaps that, had only just opened, new and vital. 

“Just fine. It’s quite extraordinary,” Blake said, wonder softening the sharp edges of his tone.

“It is, isn’t it?” Mister Avon said quietly, stepping out of the doorway, where Blake hadn’t seen him skulking. “You haven’t precisely received my permission to intrude upon me like this, Blake, but I can’t fault you for doing so. Your friend is ill. After you satisfy yourself as to Jenna’s condition, perhaps you would like a tour.”

Later, Blake would wonder whether that was the moment—when he’d stood, still pricked by wonder, and met Mister Avon’s gaze—that it had all really begun. That first assembly, of course, was the other possibility, but he was almost sure that at least for him, it had been a rather ordinary spot of unpleasantness. 

That night’s ball had been Mister Avon’s first time on GP, though the ship had been in stationary orbit over the planet for nearly a fortnight. At the assembly, Vila had told him that Mister Avon wasn’t one for leaving the Liberator, in general. He hardly ever accompanied his crew planetside for missions, preferring to direct his various self-serving campaigns from the safety of the Liberator.

When Mister Avon had assumed that Blake would want to use Mister Avon’s people for cannon fodder, Blake had been blunt in return about why Mister Avon seemed a poor ally. What would he want with someone who wouldn’t so much as risk getting his boots dirty on a farming planet, let alone life and limb.

Mister Avon had suggested that Blake was no position to judge Mister Avon for cowardice, since Blake ran his ‘Freedom Party’ from the safety of this little backwater. Word had it some of his former lieutenants hadn’t been as quick to run.

Blake had had no choice but to leave, he’d told Avon. Blake hadn’t wanted to die. But more than that, he had not been ready to surrender his life’s work fighting the Federation. The Freedom Party was far better off for having left Earth, which Mister Avon would have known if he cared a jot about politics. As for his claim that the planet was some sheltered little hideaway---well, he’d said, they’d all seen things here on Gauda Prime that he hoped Mister Avon would never have to witness.

“My, but you can talk,” Mister Avon had said. Blake still remembered Mister Avon’s unpleasant, close lipped smile: “What happened here to disturb you so much? A farming accident?”

In retrospect, Blake was almost certain he had not felt anything beyond frustration and anger when he had turned away from Avon that night. And yet, as was so often the case in such matters, such was the strength of what he came to feel later that it became quite hard to say for certain.

***

Blake had hoped to bring Jenna back with him, but he quickly realized that wasn’t a feasible plan. The teleport, which had shocked Blake’s hale body, would do Jenna no good at all. Even before he’d teleported up, Miss Mellanby had impressed upon him that the medical unit was the finest in the galaxy. The benefits of Jenna staying were many—too many to argue against. 

Mister Avon had surprised Blake by inviting him to stay until Jenna recovered. He had accepted, more reluctant to leave his friend than to stay in Mister Avon’s company.

And so Blake sat splayed out comfortably on the pale cream leather of the flight deck sofa. He was clean and loose limbed from his shower. He found it all too pleasant loitering far above Gauda Prime’s bustle--especially as the Liberator crew, Mister Avon included, pressed a series of games on him. Avon remained relatively quiet, leaving it to Tarrant, Dayna, and Vila to do most of joking and talking and entertaining him. Mister Avon was surprisingly mild about his wins and losses. Blake liked that in him. 

Throughout the day he continually reminded himself not to be drawn in by the Liberator’s charms. He knew what kind of man enjoyed this sort of environment, what kind of man enjoyed being so above it all, and it was Mister Avon, not him. Or at least he hoped that was the case. At the ball, Avon’s obvious contempt for Gauda Prime had momentarily soured Blake’s typically unstrained fondness for his planet and its people, and he had not yet fully forgiven either himself or Mister Avon for that.

***

His second day aboard the Liberator was even more pleasant than the first (he had to admit it had been pleasant, even as he’d disliked liking it). Jenna was less ghastly pale, for one thing. Mister Avon was his sole opponent in the games, the others having gone on to other pursuits. Against him alone, Avon was still quiet, and so Blake began a conversation himself.

“The ship feels new. Is it?” he asked Mister Avon. They sat alone on the flight deck, a checkerboard between them. Blake was losing, this time, but he had won their last two games.

Mister Avon liked his question, he could see it in his eyes, and in the curve of his mouth. “The ship’s computer, Zen, tells me it is a little over thirty years old.”

“That old!” In Blake’s experience, a thirty-year-old ship should not even be operational.

Mister Avon’s smile changed as he prepared to reply, growing—Blake couldn’t quite call it flirtatious, but it struck him as at the very least a little playful. “Yes, but we are using a relative term. It appears ‘a little over thirty’ is the prime of life as far as you yourself are concerned. The time to eat, drink and marry—as advantageously as you can. But of course you are correct that thirty would ordinarily be quite old for a ship of this kind.”

Blake huffed a little, though he wasn’t seriously put out, and rolled his eyes. “I see you’ve been researching our customs.”

Mister Avon said nothing in reply for a moment, a bit of his ease leaving him, then continued his explanation: “there is a self-repair function that repairs the Liberator. All wear and tear is removed. So in a sense, the ship is quite new.”

“Rather like that old paradox about the boat being replaced plank by plank.”

“Precisely.” Mister Avon grinned at him, relaxing once again. Enjoying their chat—it seemed—once again.

“Why were you so filthy when you came up yesterday?” Avon asked him, reversing the direction of the conversation again, this time almost lazily, as though they were familiar friends who might talk about anything and everything that crossed their minds. They weren’t on those terms yet, Blake thought, but he found he didn’t particularly mind the over familiarity. The awkwardness was hardly the rude sort he’d thought he’d have to contend with.

“I’d just been for a ride.” 

“In what?” 

“On what, rather. My favorite horse, Fuss.”

“I’ve never actually seen a horse in the flesh.”

Mister Avon looked straight at Blake, and he felt quite strange for a moment, almost as though he was outside of his own body, the way he had when he had first begun speaking to crowds. 

“Would you like to?” He heard himself asking. The invitation came out of his mouth almost as though someone else was making it. Then Mister Avon looked away, and the feeling passed. He wondered if that had been a hint, after all, from Mister Avon, and if he was about to be turned down. “The sun will be down by now planetside,” he continued, “but I could manage a ride in the dark.” 

“Ah, could you?” A slight smile flitted across Mister Avon’s face. “Well, all right. Perhaps it will be fun.” The word sounded a little strange in Mister Avon’s mouth, and Blake suppressed a laugh. He’d been right to ask, after all. Good.

Fuss reared at her first sight of Mister Avon, and Mister Avon, though he stood steady, seemed no less wary of the horse. When Avon stared deep into her eyes, however, Fuss gentled surprisingly. She stood patiently as Blake talked him through the process of mounting up. Then Blake swung up easily behind Avon and reached around him to take the reins in his hands. They would be a bit of a weight for Fuss this way, but a brief ride would do her no harm. 

When they faced a long, smooth stretch that he and Fuss both knew well, Blake, seized with mischief, urged Fuss into a hard gallop without warning, letting the night wind hit them hard and fast. Avon started violently and let out a short shriek. Blake laughed, caught between amusement and a thrill of nerves. Somehow Avon’s fear was catching, the raw, jagged sound endearing but also frightening. It recalled the sound of some night bird screeching after his prey.

“Did I startle you?” Blake had to press close to hear Avon’s question. He slowed Fuss to a light canter, then to a trot.

“I suppose I had it coming,” Blake said, almost directly into Avon’s ear, and heard his smile color his own voice. “I startled you, and turnabout is fair play.”

“My philosophy exactly,” Mister Avon said.

“We’re a bit of a weight for poor Fuss, and I wouldn’t want to ask too much of her. Let’s dismount and walk her back, shall we?”

Mister Avon agreed, and they did. As they walked, Blake named the buildings they passed. There was more of the town still to see, however, when they returned Fuss to her stable. Blake found he was enjoying Mister Avon’s company deeply—it wasn’t tolerable, or merely pleasant.—and offered that they could wander a little further. Avon accepted. 

After rubbing Fuss down they strolled arm in arm through the night. Blake pointed out the communal crèche, and then the tailor’s shop. Here Blake teased Avon and told him he was much in need of a visit there, looking him up and down and shaking his head.

“Noted,” Avon said, a little shortly, but it didn’t spoil the mood.

There was a clear lake at the edge of the town, where Blake often liked to swim. He said as much to Mister Avon.

“Why not?” Mister Avon said.

“Why not what?”

“Go for a swim. No time like the present.”

“Well, we would have to do without swimming clothes.”

“I am not excessively modest.”

Blake laughed. “You certainly aren’t.”

Mister Avon’s lips quirked.

“And are you? Excessively modest?”

“You’ll have to decide that,” Blake said, unbuttoning his shirt. They both stripped fully. 

Blake clambered up a rock and then leapt from that small height into the water, feeling a moment’s panic as the cold stopped his lungs.

“It feels like ice!” Blake called. “Better to leap in, Mister Avon!”

“Ah, I think not, Blake,” Avon said. 

Blake kicked his feet and watched Avon walk step by step into the dark water until it was high against his body, lapping his ribs. He didn’t flinch once. Fascinated, Blake could not prevent himself from making a study of Avon.

Avon was of ordinary proportions. His most distinguishing feature was that he was uncommonly pale, as though the sun had never dared touch him. His chest was lightly dusted with hair. A scar on his shoulder, seemingly from a blaster gun, stood out, whiter still and striking. Blake recalled sliding down from Fuss and looking up to find no sign of the flush of exertion and anxiety he’d expected from a first ride (and one where he’d been startled, too boot), and no trace of sweat on Mister Avon’s brow. The man was seemingly impervious to heat and cold.

As if to make a point about who was impervious and who was decidedly not, Blake’s right foot cramped up in protest against its immersion.

“Ouch!” He said, churning his arms and sinking deep enough into the water that he wouldn’t have to tread water.

“Are you all right? What is it?” Avon asked with some alarm, cutting through the water towards him.

Blake explained between clenched teeth, and Avon surprised him by reached down and picking Blake up by wrapping an arm under his knees. Blake’s arms came up automatically around Avon shoulders. Avon had a second, less visible scar, Blake realized. Two small white knots of scar tissue right on his neck. 

“I’ll have to get you out of this mess,” Avon said, his voice playful. “People have drowned from cramps.” 

He walked back out of the water, holding Blake rather awkwardly. 

“Put me down, for god’s sake!” Blake shouted. He was a little annoyed for a moment, but he found he didn’t want a real fight, and let his mock anger sweep away the real thing. He found himself quite resistant to spoiling any real enjoyment the man showed. Avon was certainly stronger than he looked at a glance. Blake wasn’t precisely afraid of heights, but he wasn’t used to the sensation of being held away from the ground by another human being. Blake supposed this was further revenge for his trick with Fuss.

Leaves and dirt clung to him when Mister Avon lowered him to the ground, which was rather unpleasant. He should have told him to set him down on the rocks, but hadn’t thought of it, too absorbed in the odd sensation of being held to think what was happening before it happened. They ended up having to go back into the water, where they dawdled for a time before getting out, despite the cold. Eventually the cold grew a bit too much, and Blake could feeling the night drawing to an end. Blake was surprised to realize how keenly he regretted that. There was one thing more they could do, at least. It was, Blake said, just about time for the bakery to open. The first batch of loaves always came out before dawn. The farmers of Gauda Prime started their work early, on full stomachs. After they’d both dressed again, he led Avon there.

He introduced Mister Avon to Mrs. Egri and Mister Baln, the bakers. Mister Avon took each of their flour dusted hands in turn as though he wished he could have avoided the action. He also declined to get a loaf himself, saying a little haughtily that he’d leave that to Blake. This behavior reminded Blake of Mister Avon’s less likeable side, and yet Blake took a softer attitude to it than he might have two days earlier. Avon’s snobbishness seemed a weakness to be forgiven. He suspected that Mister Avon did not particularly prize such behavior in himself. And if Blake was wrong, and Mister Avon did want to keep his nose turned up, the poor man must be quite bad at it; he’d let a dozen opportunities to sneer slip away from him in the last hour alone.

A great number of people wanted bread, so they didn’t linger in the shop. Instead, they walked back into the darkness outside. The town was no longer still and empty, as it had been, though it was still dark. Blake ate his first bite of the warm bread by tearing into the small loaf with his fingers. A little steam rose from the bread when he broke it. The nut-speckled loaf had been brushed with honey, and Mister Baln had cut a deep gash into the top of it. Into that breach he had placed a small pat of butter, which had melted obligingly into the bread, ensuring that biting near the center of the loaf would result in a rich explosion of flavor.

The cold water had sharpened Blake’s appetite, and he ate hungrily. Mister Avon watched Blake, his eyes dark and intent. Blake was certain Avon was regretting declining the bread.

“Prefer the food on someone else’s plate, do you?”

“Not particularly. I like what’s mine to be entirely mine.”

That seemed a loaded remark to Blake, but he decided to pass over it. “On Gauda Prime, that isn’t the abiding philosophy.”

“Yes, you mentioned the crèche.”

“Oh, that isn’t the half of it,” Blake said, and began telling Mister Avon about the social composition of their community. Largely it was socialist, although there was some personal property. Mister Avon listened well, and asked sharp, intelligent questions. An explanation of the planet’s socialism led to talk of their other customs, including their use of honorifics. 

“Well,” Mister Avon said, “there is no need for such formality with me.”

“Isn’t there? I hardly know you,” Blake said lightly. This didn’t quite seem true, and yet he couldn’t resist goading Mister Avon a little. 

“What would you like to know? We’ll teleport up and you’ll have it out of me,” Mister Avon said. He does want me to like him, Blake thought. He’s been trying. Blake found himself grinning. Don’t you get too smug, Blake, he chided himself. 

“Hmm,” Blake mused, when they were seated on the Liberator’s couch. Again, he felt the impulse to be playful. He enjoyed putting Mister Avon off his stride almost too much. “Well, if you’ll really tell me anything, Mister Avon, tell me about your first love.” He wasn’t certain himself if he was flirting, but it seemed a harmless enough volley. And flirt or not, he thought he’d like to hear Mister Avon get a little sentimental—if he had the nerve to make good. 

Mister Avon faltered visibly. He abruptly stopped smiling. His chest rose and fell. Blake felt immediately sorry. He considered rescinding the question, but the mood had already been altered, and, Blake had to admit, he was now deeply curious. 

“If I had met you just three years ago, it would have been easy to tell you everything. I had never really loved anyone.”

“Shocking,” Blake said warmly, trying to put him back at ease.

“Then I met Anna,” Mister Avon said seriously, not returning his smile. 

Avon talked for a long time. Blake encouraged him to unfold it all, sipping adrenaline and soma from a decanter, keeping his posture relaxed, yet responsive, never letting Avon doubt for a moment his interest or his sympathy. Avon’s back was straight, his hands curved around his knees—he seemed determined to tell Blake all. At one point, when Avon’s throat seemed to grow dry with nerves, Blake offered to pour Avon a glass, but he waved it away. Blake found the story and Avon’s resolve in telling it quite touching. 

“I’m sorry,” Blake said quietly. “There will be a second time,” Blake said, before he could think better of it. Avon in love—he found could imagine it very well, after all. Avon was made for it—it actually was quite strange that he had not fallen in love earlier in life. But perhaps that was why Avon’s idea of love was not a boy’s adolescent love, but a man’s. Fierce and focused, loyal and determined. Avon’s eyes flicked up to meet his. He looked sad and wistful, but a slight kindling of pleasure lit behind them, too.

***

It had been stupid, reckless, to let Jenna see him. Avon needed to drink blood to live, but when his need was purely nutritional he could go months without it. He had done it. He typically drank daily, if he could, but that had not yet been a problem. No one had needed more than a few hours in the medical unit until now. A secondary benefit to keeping their work low-risk. In general, he disliked the idea of risking the others’ lives while he stayed on the ship. Fortunately, his instincts tended towards keeping their ventures meticulously planned and relatively safe. Of course the occasional problem did present itself, but Jenna had been exceptionally unlucky. Fortunately, no one seemed to blame him for it.

The problem was that Avon’s need for blood was not always purely nutritional. When he’d received the news that Blake had demanded instant access to Jenna, he’d known he would need a drink to keep him steady through Blake’s visit. Blake’s effect on him was quite devastating that way. 

From the first, Avon had liked Blake. That initial attraction, however, had grown significantly upon their further acquaintance. He liked looking at him, speaking to him, touching him, telling him his secrets. Blake had such a quick, ready mind—one that could twist and turn whatever Avon said into something different, perhaps something more interesting. Words became alive when he said them to Blake. He wanted to tell Blake anything, everything. He wanted to offer Blake his sharpest wit and his most sincere confessions. More and more, he felt there was little point saying anything if it wasn’t to Blake. Everything he said to Blake gave him some kind of pleasure. It shamed him that this pleasure extended even to sharing his grief over Anna. But shame and pleasure, for him, had always been linked, and over the past three years the connection between the two had only strengthened.

Before it had happened—before Avon had come to need blood to live, before he’d stopped being quite human—Avon had never felt either pleasure or shame that intense. It was not that he believed intellectually that pleasure was shame and shame was pleasure—that seemed to be taking the matter too far--but the way his desire for blood sent shame knifing through him seemed to attest to that being the case at least some of the time. Perhaps, he thought, it was in part because of the circumstances under which he’d become so altered. He had shot the visa seller, multiple times. It had been horrible, brutal. He had felt, fully, the horror of violence. And then, as he’d been bleeding out, still violently sick from what he’d done, he’d encountered a man who had done something to him—changed him into something that needed blood to live, but more than that, something that craved it. Avon had asked the man who had come upon him for help—told him he could pay. It was now clear that that man had been drawn by his blood. He’d received a kind of help, he supposed. 

It frightened him, to have the abilities and desires he did and to be capable of such truly stupid decisions as he was. He had seized Blake’s mind so he could have a little night time ride—and a few hours in his company. So that he could clear up Blake’s poor impressions of him. Stupidly immoral. He could see no justification for violating another person’s will in such a manner unless the matter was one of life or death. He was not sure he would forgive Blake, if their situations were reversed. He thought he might just about have found the courage to tell Blake about his condition—though he hated the idea--if he hadn’t already used it as he had, against Blake. To tell him and not to admit that seemed impossible, and to admit it all—he simply could not bring himself to do it.

***

Just three days after Jenna had recovered, Blake was shocked to find Avon’s deceased first love facing him across his desk. Anna Grant was among the new recruits to the planet. She claimed to be a former security agent. Not a particularly high ranking one, not high ranking enough to be really useful, but she would do what she could, she’d said.

Anna Grant was not an uncommon name, but Del Grant had only one sister, and Blake had heard very recently and in great detail how she had died. Blake’s first thought was that Anna had somehow, incredibly, survived her capture and could now return to Avon, her love. He imagined her rushing into his arms. Goodness, Blake thought, with extreme clarity, I was starting to want him myself. The intensity of that thought almost made him miss the fact that her story couldn’t quite be reconciled with Avon’s. 

Blake always interviewed new recruits from behind his desk for a reason. Underneath that desk was a discreet comm which would trigger a silent alarm if the interview flagged something up. They were always cautious, and Blake insisted on interviewing every new recruit himself. This was, actually, the first time he had used the warning system.

Mere minutes after Blake’s had given the signal five of his best appeared, all with their guns out.

“Tie her up,” Blake told them. 

“You see, I’ve heard of you. From Avon. He’s convinced he’s responsible for your death. Tell me, what were you doing while he was bleeding out? Filing the report?”

Surprise flashed across her face. She concealed it quickly, but he read it easily enough.

“You didn’t think he’d tell me.”

“What Avon told you isn’t true,” Anna said. 

“You’re right,” Blake said. “But he thinks it is.”

As they took her away, he studied her. He could see, perhaps, why Avon had been taken in. There was a loveliness to her that seemed genuine. 

*** 

Upon hearing the news, Avon’s pale face went rigid with distress. “Shall I leave you alone?” Blake asked.

“No. No need, just—give me a moment,” Avon said.

Avon got up and paced away from Blake. He could see Avon’s back tense, could watch his visible breathing. Suddenly conscious that he was staring at Avon’s back when he ought to be letting him alone, Blake turned his attention to Zen’s rhythmically flashing lights. He really was growing attached to Avon. He hated seeing Avon in pain in the way he would have hated it in the case of a close friend. His closest friends, even.

“So, what do you make of it,” Avon said tonelessly.

“Well, it’s quite clear to me that one of you lied, and it wasn’t you,” Blake said. 

“You’re far too trusting.”

“I don’t trust her,” Blake said with force.

“In that case,” Avon said, spinning around, looking pained, “you are far too ready to trust me. Still, in distrusting her you are at least half right. Seeing as you’ve decided she’s a danger, tell me about the security measures you are taking.” Blake wondered if the distress on Avon’s face was all to do with the pain of discovering Anna’s betrayal, or if he also found it uncomfortable to have Blake’s trust. It seemed a strange thing to find upsetting. Blake tried to avoid the assumption.

“Our little community, seemingly idyllic as it is, has a rather excellent prison,” Blake said, as neutrally as he could.

“Really? I’m not sure you should depend on it. Anna is—very clever. I always knew that. I just didn’t know that her intelligence was…” He trailed off. 

They talked for rather a long while about the specifics of Anna’s confinement. Avon seemed to find it soothing, and Blake was glad there was some topic for Avon to lose himself in. Blake found he liked the way Avon’s clever mind probed around the various potential avenues of escape, even when he was obviously under unusually stress. It struck him as a little inappropriate. 

“If I didn’t know for a fact you hadn’t, I would have guessed you had worked in prison security,” Blake told him.

“Thank you. It was never my area of expertise by choice or training, of course, but I spent five months studying prisons from inside of one,” Avon said. Blake had thought of that himself, but hadn’t wanted to say as much, particularly when Avon was already distressed.

“I would have thought you’d be particularly loath to coop yourself up now,” Blake said, recalling too late that he and Avon had quarreled over a similar topic not long ago. It seemed so distant to him, that sourness between them. But perhaps it did not seem quite so distant to Avon. 

“Well, the Liberator is hardly a prison, is it?” Avon said lightly, and Blake found himself smiling in relief. The conversation still felt charged with potential, to Blake, capable of becoming much nastier or much nicer—he still worried for Avon, felt heartsick for him, but in that moment he trusted, for the first time, that there was something firm and immovable in their friendship.

“No. It’s a beautiful ship, Avon,” Blake said warmly. 

“Thank you, Blake,” Avon said, grinning back—a full, brilliant smile. It faded all too quickly. Anna’s fault. 

**

Unfortunately, the tailor’s shop closed before sundown. Fortunately, Avon was in possession of a supercomputer capable of taking his measurements to the millimeter.

“Left wrist: two-hundred and three millimeters; right wrist two-hundred and four millimeters; waist one thousand sixteen millimeters; hips one thousand thirty-eight millimeters--” Orac dashed off, in a rapid fire litany. The computer was impatient with Avon’s request, as usual. This time it really might be considered frivolous, but it mattered to him.

Avon wrote as fast as possible, struggling to keep up while keeping everything legible. He rarely had occasion for pen and paper, but needs must.

***

“Not nervous, are you, Avon?” Vila turned to Cally. “You know, I think maybe he’s a little shy. At least we’re dressed right this time. The best job the tailor could do, all in black, just like you wanted. Relax, Avon!”

“You missed out on the best part of all that,” Tarrant said. “There’s nothing like getting fitted.” 

“Of course he didn’t. The best part’s wearing it!” Dayna said, whirling in her high-waisted dress. 

"I can’t see what’s to like about getting poked and prodded and this’d and that’d,” Vila said. “I suppose it helped that Mister Purvass—that’s the man who did us up—kept going on about what a fine figure Tarrant would cut. I’d rather cut a purse than a fine figure, myself, and sometimes it’s one or the other. I don’t know, do you think he cuts a fine figure?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Avon said absentmindedly, obviously not having heard a word. 

***

“Mister Avon,” Blake said grinning. His arms came up almost as though he would have embraced Avon, but he stopped short of it, leaving about five meters between them. “Welcome to the assembly.” Blake’s gaze became more intent then, more obviously fixed on Avon’s. Blake crooked his finger, beckoning Avon closer. Avon wasn’t sure he’d ever been more charmed by anyone. He could think that now. Anna’s betrayal had hurt, still hurt, but it made it even easier to fall for Blake. He no longer had the guilt of betraying Anna’s memory to worry about. Only the guilt of keeping his secrets from Blake himself—he wished he found that harder to suppress than he did. 

“Dance with me,” Blake said, and Avon agreed, helpless to refuse, not wanting to refuse. He loved Blake’s closeness to him—hadn’t had it since he’d scooped him out of the lake. Blake’s hand at his waist was much better--incomparably wonderful. Blake was a difficult, challenging dance partner, but Avon had practiced, and he gave up his internal battle and let himself simply enjoy it.

“Where’s your next venture taking you?” Blake asked, at last having slowed his footwork to a more conversational speed.

"Horizon."

"Horizon, that used to be Silmareno?"

"You've heard of it?" Avon asked.

"Oh, in passing. Tell me more about what you're doing there."

“A woman named Selma wants supplies for a revolt she’s planning. It’s a profitable trade. Food and weapons for monopasium ore.”

“Ore mined by her enslaved people.”

“Yes…I suppose you think I shouldn’t accept the money."

“I didn’t say that. How are the terms? If your personal charm became a factor in the negotiation, I fear you may be being taken advantage of.”

“No need to fear, Blake,” Avon said, smiling. “All of our communications passed through several intermediaries. But there may be further negotiations upon arrival. How would you like to come? I ask only that if you do, you refrain from pointing out that Selma will be paying me with the fruits of her people’s slavery.”

***

Avon had been looking forward to working with Blake. Unfortunately, their plans began to go wrong almost instantly. Blake and his crew were captured. Avon felt sick about his own role in events. He had realized relatively quickly that something had gone wrong with the mission, but although Horizon’s forests were thick and dark, some light filtered through the trees. His sensitivity to natural light was extreme—his body treated it like intensely focused, deadly radiation. Deep in the heart of the Liberator, there was one small room with adjustable lighting—it had everything: infrared, ultraviolet, and natural sunlight, too. Avon was not certain of the room’s original function, but the crew used it medicinally. Avon had tried the room, and instantly understood that one of his many constitutional changes had resulted in a complete intolerance. Typically, it didn’t trouble him much—just about everyone native to earth, even Alphas, lived and died without experiencing sunlight, after all. Most Dome dwellers knew that sunlight was healthy, but most also knew they’d probably never experience it. Supplements took care of the deficits, for them. He didn’t need them. 

He had paced up and down the ship, alone, hating to be so helpless, so useless. He had hated that every minute he delayed was a minute Blake would spend wondering why he did not come. At last, night had fallen. 

“It took you long enough,” Blake had said when Avon had come for him at last, and Avon had felt like hitting him, or crying. He wasn’t really angry with Blake, but rather with himself.

Blake had acquitted himself well. Marshalling the mine workers into a system of equitable food-distribution by sheer force of will once they were captured; arguing with King Ro about his allegiance to the Federation and appealing to his better nature; and, finally, after they were back on the Liberator, revealing that he'd suspected all along that the planet's force wall would protect them from the additional Federation pursuit ships sent in as backup. He'd over-ridden Avon without stopping to tell him why. And then Blake had negotiated with Selma for access to the force wall technology, and practically ordered Avon to take a look at it with him.

A tense discussion about the technology had become a quarrel that had lasted hours. Avon knew he couldn’t expect Blake not to be angry with him. He should have told Blake then, he knew, but it seemed far too late for that. He knew if he had not told Blake he should at least take Blake’s tone towards him in stride. But he couldn’t. It was miserable, fighting with Blake. But better this quarrel, which they’d sort out eventually, than one they might not, he told himself. It would be all right.

***

Avon knocked on the door to the shower room just as Blake was toweling himself dry. It seemed Avon had been outside the door, waiting for the sound of the water running to cease. 

In his hand he held a soft white robe, which he offered to Blake.

“Fresh out of a drying cycle. Go on, put it on,” Avon said.

The robe slid over his back. 

“That was good of you,” Blake said cautiously. He still felt angry, and vulnerable. It had been one of those arguments about everything and nothing. He had a sense that he did not quite understand what they were talking about. That he didn’t know the right questions to ask, the right things to say, for them to understand each other again. 

“White suits you,” Avon said quietly. 

“Do you think so?” 

“I do,” Avon said, looking pained. And with that, Avon turned and left the room. 

Blake could tell how badly Avon wanted their quarrel to stop, how unhappy he was. Blake wanted to demand answers, to force them both into a real understanding of what had happened. He also wanted an immediate end to their arguing, almost as much as Avon seemed to. He could not have both. And perhaps, he thought, it was not the right thing to make Avon tell all. If Avon truly had hesitated to save Blake, would it do either of them any good to make him admit it? Might their friendship become deeper and more loyal, in the end, if he did not humiliate Avon now? Blake knew he could at times be too stubborn, too demanding. Perhaps his instinct here for complete openness was wrong. He did not consider this to be some kind of failed test on Avon’s part—that was not how one treated a friend. In his heart he trusted that Avon was trying to do right—in general, and to Blake. So why not let this go? Maybe Avon had been afraid. Maybe he had needed to confront his own priorities. It was a great deal to ask. He resolved that he would stay in his room until he felt calm, ready to greet Avon as he would have before all of this happened. 

***

Before Blake left the Liberator to return to work, Avon asked if Blake would consider inviting him to dinner at his family compound. He was pleased to hear that Blake would. Fortunately, for him, dinner was always after sundown, on GP. Anything else would have meant missing valuable time farming. 

He had been surprised at how quickly Blake had forgiven him, and he had attempted to show his appreciation by treating Blake as warmly as he could. Was that warmly? Well, he told him stories from his schooldays, to the shock of Dayna, Vila and Tarrant. He brought him interesting foods to try from the Liberator’s food synthesizers. He asked Blake to suggest reading material for him—revolutionary and otherwise, and made sure he did not neglect a single one of the recommendations. Some were very good indeed. Still, he feared Blake might still be wondering if Avon was only willing to be decent if there was no risk involved, and so he asked Blake about his next moves against the Federation. Might he return the favor Blake had done him in coming with him to Horizon? All of this was no sacrifice at all. He liked—no, he loved, being good to Blake. 

The table was loaded with food—enough to satisfy seven hungry people—though, Avon thought with an internal sigh, only six would be eating, of course. The table was large, wooden, and round. Avon sat at Blake’s right hand, which pleased him. Avon took a little of each dish as it was passed around the table. On the Liberator they didn’t take meals together, so the awkwardness of this particular quirk of Avon’s physiology had rarely made itself felt. It seemed a criminal waste, but Avon gentled Blake’s dog Jasper with a touch to the creature’s mind and, after she had settled placidly at Avon’s feet, proceeded to slip her scraps under the table. Sweet corn, golden and dripping with butter, peas, carrots, even a little meat, stretched out to last in what they called a shepherd’s pie. Blake caught him at it once (he’d learned some of Vila’s tricks, but not all of them), and, having no doubt interpreted the situation incorrectly, flashed him an amused glance which Avon couldn’t entirely read. Blake either assumed Avon disliked the food or that he simply couldn’t resist the opportunity to spoil Blake’s dog a little. He wasn’t such a soft touch, he was sure, but the fondness in Blake’s eyes as the lids flickered down, a gesture somehow far more subtle and conspiratorial than a wink, and as his mouth curved up beguilingly, made Avon wish he could be completely, entirely, unimpeachably what Blake thought he was. 

When Avon had still been able to eat, he had rarely bothered with anything more elaborate than a protein shake. He had never considered food to be worth his time. He now took more pleasure in drinking synthesized blood out of the med unit’s chiller than he could ever remember taking from a standard meal. Unfortunately, that enjoyment was tainted, both a mere shadow of what he wanted and entirely too good. It felt more like self-pleasure than eating. He wished he could, for once, taste ordinary food and simply enjoy it. 

It interested Avon that Blake’s brother and sister had both married Amagon women. He hated to be rude, he said—everyone laughed uproariously at this, to Avon’s discomfort--but he wondered if the Blakes often found themselves in political disagreement with their wives, and vice versa. And were the frequent absences their free trading required the cause of much trouble for the couples?

Ang refused to say a word about Arwa when she wasn’t there to defend herself. And would she need defending, Avon asked? Oh, not in earnest, the Blakes assured him, though there was some old gripe between them about their honeymoon that they loved to air at any opportunity. Rees and Bilal teased each other fondly, Bilal suggesting that Rees didn’t miss her enough, Rees arguing back that Bilal was the heartless one. 

“I’m not certain who cooked all of this, but it was excellent,” Avon said stiffly. Blake stifled a laugh with a napkin . 

“I did the pudding and the shepherd’s pie,” Lewell said. “Bilal and Rees brought the corn, Ang baked the carrots—which I think she’s just about got right, finally.” Ang rolled her eyes.

“Well done,” Avon said, perhaps a bit too flatly. He hoped he didn’t sound nervous, or insincere. “If it wouldn’t violate any tradition or custom, I thought perhaps Blake and I might walk down to the lake and back.”

“Oh, we aren’t nearly as formal as that. Is that really how it seems? Go, by all means!” Lewell said, pushing himself back from the table in his enthusiasm.

“Yes, go on and have a walk. It might just keep you from getting fat, Blake,” Ang said.

“Take the dog, Mister Avon. She likes you,” Davi said. 

They left the table, and then the house, and then the Blake family compound. Avon had paid close attention to what Blake had showed him when they’d been down before, so he knew the way. He was able to walk side by side with Blake without having to worry about turning down a wrong path, even in the midst of his distraction. And distracted he was. This was his last chance, he told himself, to be honest with Blake about his condition—which was violent and embarrassing. To be honest about the fact that he had once used his power against Blake, to make Blake obey a whim of his—which Blake really might not forgive. To be honest about the fact that he hadn’t told Blake why he had left him so long on Horizon, choosing instead to let Blake wonder if Avon had considered letting Blake die. An example of how the deception kept making things worse. And yet he couldn’t tell him. He was simply too selfish. He would have to be as honest as he could without doing it. 

Still, with that decided, he could find no natural opening into the conversation he wished to have. Blake, he thought, would have been able to bring them deftly around to this. It was not the sort of thing Avon knew how to angle at subtly, and he had turned what he wanted to say over in his mind until it had become a long, unwieldy speech, which he would have to rattle off.

“Avon, what’s wrong?” Blake asked, putting a hand to his shoulder. Well, that was an opening of sorts, Avon thought with no little exasperation with himself. 

“Blake, I—Blake, will you marry me? I am aware that on this planet that is the appropriate question to ask, if one feels as I do.” Here Blake tried to cut in, but Avon held up a hand. He knew he was talking too much, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Blake speaking before he had explained himself fully. Perhaps he ought to have written a letter, but the idea of setting down a declaration that he couldn’t change or amend, that Blake would look over with all of his judgment while Avon waited for his verdict, had seemed unbearable. “It needn’t amount to any more than you wish it to. I imagine we will often be apart, as your brother and sister are from their wives. We have our separate interests. You needn’t see any more of me than you wish to. All of my assets will, of course, be at your disposal. I might hope that that aspect of my proposal alone might be enough to tempt you, if my personal charms fall short.” His voice was shaking a little, he noticed. That had never happened to him before.

“Avon—I. I didn’t—it’s a little precipitous.”

“Not by your standards, surely, Blake.” Avon tried to smile, and found he couldn’t. “I cannot promise you that I will never again disappoint you.” He tried not to lose himself in a wash of bitter frustration over Horizon. “I cannot promise you that I will always be able to explain my behavior to your satisfaction. But I will use everything at my disposal—all of my intelligence, skill, wealth, and capacity for affection—to make certain you always have anything in my power to give. I will do my utmost to help you achieve your aims and to make you happy in that way, as well as in the smaller ways that people who love each other can make each other happy. I love and desire you very deeply. I will be loyal to you, you will be first in my heart, and I will never hesitate to give my life for yours. I hope that it is therefore possible for you to forgive my shortcomings, whatever their cause.”

Avon reached over and clasped Blake’s hand in both of his.

“Avon,” Blake said quietly. He gripped Avon’s hands in return, and Avon had to do everything he could not to cling to Blake. What power Blake had to hurt him, if Blake so chose. “My, but your hands are cold! Nervous?”

“Terrified. But you will find my hands are always rather cold. Blake, I’m in agony. Say you will--”

“Yes. I’ll marry you,” Blake said. “I surprise myself daily with how deep my affection for you has already become. You are so much more than I thought you were. I already find I cannot imagine anyone with whom I would rather spend my life.” His eyes were dark, and intent. Avon realized he could hardly breathe. “And besides,” Blake said, grinning at him, “I like your ship.” 

Blake leaned forward, and they exchanged their first kiss. Avon could hear his own breath come out of him in something like a sigh. The sensation of Blake’s mobile, expressive mouth pressed chastely to his was almost too much enticement and pleasure to bear. He was at times very aware of the ways in which his condition had altered him, changed the intensity of his sensations and desires. It frequently felt excessive, indecent—it threatened to sweep him into violence, it made him tremble. But in this moment, his intense, fever pitch need seemed entirely appropriate. There were times when too much was just precisely enough. 

***

Marriage: paperwork only, then an assembly after. As Avon signed documents, he found himself thinking with some anxiety about whether it could last. He didn’t believe he’d have Blake for long, didn’t feel it was possible. Of course, he also did believe it was quite possible, or he wouldn’t have done it. Even he was not stupid enough to attempt something he did not believe could succeed. He just also, simultaneously, and with equal force, believed it could not succeed. On the whole, he was finding himself to be disturbingly capable of mental contortions, when it came to justifying marrying Blake.

He told himself that what he was promising Blake, as he signed the documents, was not a lie. Avon had done every test on himself he could. It seemed, with his slow heartbeat and fast healing, that he could live a very long time while changing very little in appearance and health. His body had not ceased entirely to age, however, and he had found a useful paper on a phenomenon called Hoffal’s radiation. Produced when neutrons were subjected to intense magnetic force, less than a millionth of a second’s exposure could age a normal man 50 years. There were more tests to be done on his cell samples—he did not know for certain it would work, but it seemed likely that if he could subject himself to such radiation at regular intervals, he could manage to appear to age normally with Blake. If Hoffal’s radiation was not effective there would be another way. It mattered to him to find it, not just so that he could maintain the deception, but so that he could share Blake’s lot in all things. Blake, who was so clever, so kind, so challenging, so interesting, had given him permission to do it, and he was going to take it. 

If all of that was not complex enough, Avon also, of course, feared that Blake would not even live long enough for that to become a problem. Blake was not a man you married because you wanted to grow old together. For all that Avon had taunted him for leaving earth when they had first met, Blake was, if anything, far too reckless for Avon’s happiness.

***

Avon spent hours choosing a bed. Black wood, dark and intricate. Huge, with white sheets that seemed to stretch forever. It would be his wedding gift to Blake, he decided. Simply sharing everything he already owned was not enough.

“Made entirely from Gauda Prime materials, crafted by the honest hands of the planet of Gauda Prime,” Avon said with light irony.

“A little more to your taste than to mine, wouldn’t you say?” Blake said mildly.

“I believe one rarely succeeds in trying to cater to someone else’s taste. If I select something I think is beautiful, there are at least some terms it will succeed on. If I were to try to select something I thought you might like, it is very possible I would have commissioned something no one in the world could love.”

“Of course, you might have asked me to look at the designs,” Blake said. Avon was uncertain if Blake was really annoyed, or only teasing him.

“Ah,” Avon said. “I suppose I have a weakness for the grand gesture.”

Blake smiled fondly at him, and Avon breathed out a sigh of mingled relief and happiness. “I suppose it’s for the best. We might still be arguing, and find we had to sleep on the floor.” They kissed, and Avon knew he would never tire of Blake’s affection if they lived to a hundred.

***

Blake had not consciously formed an idea of what sex with Avon would be like, and yet the reality of it surprised him.

There was something in the way Avon made love that told Blake that this was for Blake, that Avon was pleasuring him, that the pleasure Avon took from this was all from knowing Blake liked it. Blake found it touching, and yet he wished Avon would allow himself more pleasure of his own.

“Let me,” Blake said, eventually, and Avon lay down compliantly. He knotted his hands in the sheets of his bed. Blake trailed his tongue down Avon’s back, the skin cool against his warm tongue. Avon shuddered beneath him. His arms jerked a little, and closed his eyes. 

“What would you like?” Blake asked.

“Suggest something, and I’ll tell you what I think,” Avon said. With Avon, such a request seemed an invitation to endless debate, but Avon let Blake do anything and everything Blake suggested—lightly pull Avon’s hair, bite at Avon’s sensitive nipples, bite and suck Avon’s fingers. They were all quite reasonable requests, and Avon seemed to enjoy them, certainly—what surprised Blake was that seemed almost not to hear what Blake said before saying yes to it. And then he didn’t give notes—didn’t tell him to hurry, didn’t tell him to go harder. Nor did he tell Blake that it was perfect as it was. Blake had to admit to being a little perplexed. Perhaps Avon was simply nervous.

When Blake began to prepare Avon, Avon’s hands moved to grip the bedframe. A loud, long ahhhh as the breath left him, a shorter, more ragged one as it came back to him. At last the sound stopped for a moment—only a moment, and then grew lower and softer, a series of quiet, desperate groans. For a moment Blake was not sure whether Avon had reached orgasm---the sounds he made did not quite speak to Blake of completion. They were too plaintive, filled with as much need as pleasure. But no, Avon was undoubtedly finished. Blake put his hands over Avon’s where they gripped the black wood, entreating his grip to relax. He finally relented, released his grip and let Blake take him in his arms.

But even there, Avon’s body stayed tense—wracked with fine tremors which were interrupted by the occasional jerk of his entire body.

“Relax, dear,” Blake breathed into his ear. Avon shifted, then turned to look at him. The stark, wild need in his eyes took Blake aback. Blake lay back and closed his eyes against it, letting the sharp eroticism of being looked at with such intensity become an almost physical caress, a last pleasure for his sated body and mind. It might have been frightening, even repellant, to be looked at like that, Blake thought, if he had felt that Avon’s gaze demanded something he could not give. But Blake could answer it. Did answer it.

“I’m starving,” Avon murmured, blinking, dulling his gaze and disentangling himself gently. “Would you like anything from the galley while I’m up?”

“Very kind of you, but I’m too sleepy by half for that,” Blake replied, let his eyes drift closed again, and tumbled into a warm half dream.

 

***

Avon disliked spending time apart from Blake, but when Blake teleported up to him, his skin warmed and darkened by the sun, it seemed almost worth it to have missed him. Avon ran his fingers over Blake’s face and neck, drinking in the sunlight on him.

***

Avon knew he’d been reckless on Albion. Sunless rooms and a protective suit gave him the opportunity to prove to Blake that he could be brave and daring, as much a hero as Blake could want him to be. And so he risked pushing to disable the solium bomb. It was a stupid to do, and as it happened, Blake was not delighted with his actions, but he preferred a worried and angry Blake to a confused and hurt Blake, and felt, in the end, that he had had restored his standing as he wished it to. 

The next night, when Blake made love to him, Blake tied Avon to the bed.

“Was this what you wanted, and wouldn’t ask for?” Blake asked.

Avon almost laughed. To imagine something so innocent could be the cause of his shame. 

And yet how very keen Blake’s powers of observation were. Not keen enough to enable him to uncover Avon’s true secret—and how could they be?—but keen enough to allow him to please Avon in ways Avon had never imagined. He had seen that Avon was fighting against himself and understood better than Avon—who had seen no possibility of respite that did not come from slaking his thirst. Blake had helped Avon to for once relax into the pleasure without fear of forgetting himself.

When he was as finished as he was going to be, Blake untied him. Fortunately, a skillfully tied rope was more than a match for his strength. With an effort, Avon controlled the tremor in his now all-too-free hand and brushed it gently down Blake’s cheek.

“You’re so terribly good to me,” Avon said. 

Blake smiled at him, warm and fond, and Avon let himself believe that they could go on like this forever.

***

They received the urgent message the moment they were within range of Gauda Prime: Anna Grant had escaped, taking Inga as a hostage and then demanding a ship. She had brought Inga with her, probably hoping to present her to central security as consolation for a mostly failed mission.

“We’ll go after her,” Avon said, grasping Blake’s hand in his. “Orac will begin searching immediately. It can track her ship and analyze reports of returning central security agents to determine the which code name is most probably hers. Inga may still be alive, Blake.” 

They found the facility where Anna had reported in. Inga, it seemed, was being held for questioning.

“You get Inga, I’ll---go after Anna,” Avon said. 

“Are you certain that’s necessary?” Blake asked. Of course, he was well aware that it was not, strategically speaking. 

“Yes,” Avon replied, his voice a little strained. If there had been little choice but to leave Anna to her business—he supposed he could have accepted that. But although it added greater risk to the plan, it seemed justifiable—just about, to pursue her. It would be a small detour. When she had been locked up, he hadn’t wanted to see her, or even think of her, but now that she was free he could not simply leave her to her work. Not when he had loved her, and she had betrayed him completely. Perhaps if she had not also taken someone Blake loved—but then, perhaps that was giving himself too much credit. He was hurt enough on his own account.

Blake regarded him a moment. “Then we’ll do as you say.” Blake, often so stubborn, was agreeing readily. Because Blake truly loves me, Avon thought, feeling a sharp stab of guilt for his own betrayals of Blake. 

Avon teleported into Anna’s office and shot her dead the moment he saw her. It was a strange anti-climax. Anna was dead—he had done it. He had wanted to do it. He felt numb and detached. It almost seemed as though it hadn’t happened. But then, so too did much of his life. The fact that he had kept his secret from Blake also often seemed unreal. If his need for blood was not so physical, so immediate, it too would probably often not seem to have happened. The worst things, the most difficult things, hid themselves from him and then came back at times he did not expect, to thrum for days in the back of his mind, before fading back again. He teleported back up mechanically. He did not want to risk distracting Blake at a crucial juncture by teleporting back down, and so he paced and paced, rubbing his hands against each other. 

Worry about Blake was a hard kernel of a thought, and his mind found it easy to turn that over. Blake was always very real to him, however abstract things became otherwise.

He remined himself that it had not been long, and that Blake was probably fine, until it was clear: it was definitely taking too long. He would have to teleport down. He found he was almost afraid to. Anything could have happened. The cell was too deep under ground for teleport. He skidded clumsily down two flights of stairs, fortunately meeting no one.

When he entered the cell, Inga was crouched over Blake. 

“A guard shot him in the back,” Inga said, in a choked voice, “Were just about to leave. I was able to grab Blake’s gun and shoot him before he could call another.” She was doing an admirable job controlling her panic. It was a good example to Avon, he thought from the floor, which he’d dropped to without having noticed. He gripped Blake’s hand frantically. Avon could see that Inga had been in a bind. Leave Blake to get help, or stay while it got worse.

“I was just persuading her that she should teleport up alone,” Blake said faintly. 

Avon considered their options, forcing his mind to remain rational. A healing pad might not be enough, and it would take minutes to get it even if it would. Blake could die of his injury in that time, or another guard could come and finish him off. The best thing--the only thing, if he wanted Blake to live, would be to drink his blood. He recalled how quickly he had recovered, when he had been near death after the visa seller had shot him. He ought to ask--it was a terrible idea to do it without warning, without permission. He had betrayed Blake by not telling him of his own condition, and this would be a worse betrayal still. Yet he couldn’t risk Blake saying no. Soon, Blake would know everything. Then he could choose to leave Avon, if he wanted to. He would probably want to. Avon felt he might be ill, if he didn’t hurry. 

“Leave, and teleport up,” he said to Inga.

“What--” she began.

“Do it!” Avon snarled, wrenching her mind with all his strength. She left.

Then Avon fell on Blake and sank his teeth into his neck. Blake struggled, probably reflexively. Avon doubted he understood enough of what was happening to be consciously resisting. Avon was trembling. It was terrible to do it, the worst thing he’d done. It was, of course, also intensely pleasurable. Blake also began to like it, physically. His pained breathing shifted into a groan of shocked enjoyment. 

“Avon—what--” he asked.

He didn’t answer, just gripped Blake more tightly and continued. He loved Blake too much to falter now, although even the pleasure was not enough to make him forget the terrible thing he was doing. And then it was done. 

“Avon?” Blake asked, in a daze.

“Get up,” Avon said numbly, tugging Blake onto his feet and supporting him by slinging Blake’s arm around his shoulder. Blake would be improving fast, now. They could get to the teleport point without a problem. They ought to hurry, to avoid capture.

***  
Avon assured Inga curtly that Blake was fine—ignoring her questions resolutely--and hurried him to their bedroom. Blake let him do it. Avon felt he shouldn’t, but he could not resist making Blake more physically comfortable, taking off his boots, and then guiding him back onto their pillows.

“What happened?” Blake was trembling, Avon noticed. He did not seem angry, just incredibly confused.

Avon explained the situation with a dry throat and barely suppressed panic, starting from the beginning, with the visa seller shooting him. He told Blake everything—it was all terrible to tell, but it was admitting to influencing Blake that almost left him unable to continue.

“I honestly don’t know where to begin, Avon.”

“I am afraid I am unfamiliar with the procedure for initiating a divorce on your planet, so I can provide no helpful hints,” Avon said bleakly. He didn’t know what he would do. He had only been married to Blake a short while, but it seemed unthinkable. Blake had become part of his life in a way he didn’t know how to give up. And then there were the painful, humiliating details of how they would have to end things. Blake would have to explain to his concerned family and friends. Avon would have to explain to his crew. What would they tell them? 

“Avon,” Blake sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He sounded…frustrated. That might mean Blake hadn’t given up on him—but Avon doubted his own ability to read the situation. 

“I have violated your trust beyond the point of reasonable forgiveness,” Avon said. Because it was true, and because it was a relief to state it. 

“Of course not,” Blake said shortly, and Avon closed his eyes with relief so sharp and painful that he couldn’t bring himself to trust it as real. “But I am very angry. Not with my new circumstances. It will probably take some getting used to, but it won’t change my life in the important ways. My work can continue. I still have my friends. My family. My health, in the ways that matter. I’m simply astounded that you didn’t tell me all of this before.” Blake laughed, a little angrily, but not cruelly. “It’s been terrible for our marriage.”

“I know,” Avon said.

“But I do understand,” Blake said.

“Do you? Do I?” Avon asked. 

Blake embraced Avon, pushed him down to the bed, and began to kiss him gently.

“You wanted me to like you,” Blake said simply. 

“Yes,” Avon said, feeling as though he might cry. “And I do still want that, Blake, more than anything. But I swear to you, I will be more honest.”

“Well then,” Blake said, holding him tighter, “I think you’re in luck.”

END


End file.
